A Gift for Dead Gods, 9.

Back in the great city of Rasnach, trouble was brewing. Irune, one of the high priestesses of the Lord of Blades stared from her tower standing at the edge of the temple. Somewhere in that great, stinking pit of a city her sister danced amongst the shadows. The god of murder demanded blood to be spilled, and they obeyed. Ilane had always been her superior in the ways of the blade, Irune had to admit. She raised her skeletal hand and began weaving her spell. She grinned.
It had been a terrible day for Por, he told himself. Stumbling through the alleys he paused, leaning against the wall. Too much ale, he decided. He heard something behind him, and he turned. An empty alley stared back at him. He shrugged and turned back the way he was heading. He never noticed the woman stepping from the darkness, her dagger sinking into his eye. As he fell, she wiped her knife on his shirt and put it away in the same motion. Ilane spoke a few ritual words of murder, then turned and ran back to the palace. As she ran, she started grinning.
Somewhere, deep inside the ruins of Garnack stood the court of the Lord of Blades. The ruins were one of the most dangerous places in the known world. If one were to try and find the court, one would have to travel to the ruins, and survive long enough in the ruins to locate the temple. Ferocious creatures roamed there, preying upon one another and on all magical energy they could find.
The court was in attendence. On one side of the huge throne hovered five skeletal liches, dark robes draped around their bones. From within their empty sockets a cold light shone. Opposite these undead sorcerors were five shades, creatures of solid shadow. These deathless watchers stood along the path that led to the enormous throne that held the physical shell of the Lord of Blades.
Upon the throne sat the Lord in his massive glory. This form was his true form, not the armors which sat on thrones in his temples to be animated by his projected mind, this shell contained the essence and conciousness of the god. While the armor was the same, it was almost twice as big as the armors in the temples, and unlike those empty husks, this armor was filled by a shifting mass of metal. Near the centre of the hall, two figures knelt.
The lich closest to the throne turned towards the kneeling figures. A hollow, monotone and echoing voice spoke, and the light in its eyes flared. “No mortal being has stood in these halls for ages. Be wary, mortals. We are no friends.” A shade, slightly darker then its companions, drifted forwards. From inside the coiling shadows, a vague face appeared. “My friend speaks truth, mortal. Speak no ill of us here or anywhere. We can always find you.” A grating laugh came from the god, and all those in the hall turned to watch the god.
“My servants are right, mortals. You have my protection for the moment, but you must continue to serve.” As he stood up, he waved his enormous arms, indicating the shades and liches. “My servants, my high priests and priestesses. They are my eternal companions, even in death.” Towering over the kneeling figures, he continued in a voice like grating metal, “Tell me, mortals. Why are you here?”
Trembling, the figure on the right spoke. Despite his trembling, his voice was steady. “We are here to warn you, divine one. Your champion is about to meet one of our.. Less stable experiments.” The god turned and returned to the throne. “You presume to warn me, Olivex? You, the imprisoned one?” Once more, he laughed. “I know of your ‘experiment’. The mage-thief, the changed one. You are wrong on two fronts. First, you do not warn me. Second, he is not your experiment any more, mage. He is mine. Now I shall warn you, do not enter these halls again. It is time for you to leave.”
As the two figures stood up and had bowed to the throne, they turned and made their way to the doors at the other end of the hall. The voice of the god thundered after them, “Caphis, keep your unruly brother in line. There is a reason the gods imprisoned him but not you. Now begone!”

A Gift from Dead Gods, 8.

Luno was furious. “Why was I not told? This gift of theirs! A wonderful, amazing suit of armor!” Fyanha shrugged. “Look, that’s the sisters for you. Every blessing is a curse. And you should be happy that armor cleans itself. If it didn’t, you’d be on your own.” He sat down, hanging his head. “But why? Why would they give me armor that doesn’t come off? Will I have to wear it forever?”
It was dark, and they were sitting at a campfire Fyanha had created. After the foiled ambush earlier in the day they had walked on, closer to the forests. As night fell, Luno had tried to take off his armor. He had failed. The armor was sealed shut, trapping him inside.
Fyanha stood up, walking around the fire. “Look, champion. You can ask the sisters about the armor when we get back to the Artok. Or maybe the Lord?” She grinned. “Of course, this might all be part of His great plan.” Luno stared at her, then started shaking his head. “Let us just let it rest. We should rest too. Tomorrow we could make it to the edge of the forest, and prepare.” She nodded and curled up next to the fire.
Sighing, Luno stared at the sky.

The next evening, they reached the edge of the forests. Fyanha turned. “We are close to our destination now. Can you set up some magical wards?” She grinned and continued, “I smell fresh food.” Luno nodded, and she ran off into the nearby trees. He sighed and started gathering wood for the fire. Even magical fire needed a fuel source to keep burning.
Later that night, as they were eating whatever it was Fyanha had caught. She’d brought it back already nearly burned, and as good as done. “Tell me, champion. Do we have a plan?” Luno started grinning. “We are on their grounds, without any knowledge. We have their unwillingness to kill as an advantage. They say no plan survives contact with the enemy. My plan is making our enemies not survive contact with us.”
“Spoken like a true Champion of Murder.”, said a voice. Fyanha jumped up, fire surrounding her hands. Luno pulled his swords as he stood up. “Who dares adress us without showing himself?”

Utopia.

“Utopia”, they called it. In a way, they are correct. This place suits humans perfectly. The strongest impose their will, the weakest feed on their trash. Laws have long since evaporated. Only tyrants rule. The machines grow, feed, harvest us. Terra is a long-lost place of legends and folk tales. We don’t remember what they called this place in the old days. It must have had a name, but it is lost to us. They call it home. I named it hell.
I think I used to be a criminal, in those other days. I vaguely remember trees, parks. Or maybe I was an idealist. Whatever I was, I am but a shadow of what I once was. All of us here, shades in the dark. No way off this shithole of a planet, only a way in. A machine named Sweep controls the spaceport. With it comes the only official medical facility here. Been there once, when I lost my arms. Had to work off the debt, but it was worth it.
Knocking on the door. A voice yelling. I seal my suit, and turn around. Door gets blasted to pieces. Screaming from across the hall. Raid. Three of them run in, pointing their guns at me. One of them tells me to put up my arms. Same voice as the yelling, must be their leader. I put up my arms, no sense resisting. Curious about what they want. There is nothing here but me.
Three hours later, I am sitting in a small room. They’ve taken my suit, even my arms. Removed the lenses from my right eye. Half-blind and unarmed I wait for them to tell me what they want. A young woman enters. Her long hair is black, I can see the datawires hanging from her temples. Heavy cybernetics on her left side. Good quality, probably servant of a machine. Her voice is a monotone, soft and unnerving. She tells me I will do as she says or die. I have accepted her offer.

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I haven't written anything for a while. It's not flowing.
This came up, and it's something.
Should I continue this?

This would turn into a dystopian cyberpunkish story.